The Shepherd
by your.kat
Summary: "She didn't know why they called her Shepherd. First of all, she was a woman. Second of all, the last sheep died months ago. But for some reason, it made them feel safe. So who was she to judge?" Eventual Faberry. Badass!Rachel. Scary!Quinn. Beth is here. On hiatus indefinitely.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N:**__ Just another alternate universe that has taken a hold of me. I don't promise consistent updates. We'll see where things go..._

_**Warning:**__There will be mature language and violence and post-apocalyptic (and thus highly depressing) themes._

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own Glee._

**The Shepherd**

I never really understood why they called me '_Shepherd_'. First of all, I am a fucking _woman. _Second of all, the last sheep died _months _ago. People I have never met in my life - people I will most likely never see again - they just _know_ me as Shepherd. For some reason, it makes them feel safe. So who am I to judge?

My lack of anonymity constantly fluxes between Blessing and Curse.

On one hand, as long as I am near civilization, I hardly ever go without some kind of dinner in my stomach and a semblance of a bed to lay on at night - even if I've developed the habit of sleeping with one eye open and with my hands constantly clutching at the smooth, worn handles of whatever weapons I'm favoring at the time. People who don't even know me, they'll tentatively peek their heads around lopsided shutters; and then when they recognize me - _whatever_ it is that they recognize about me - the whispers will start. "_Shepherd_," they'll say. "_It's Shepherd..._" Even if I'm just passing through.

Then again, I'm always just passing through...

Aren't we all?

On the _other_ hand, sometimes I need to _just_ pass through. The places where they welcome me indoors to a meal and a bed and a conversation and the familiar comfort of community? Well, they don't usually have problems. But sometimes I'll just be passing through, and the whispers will start. "_It's the Shepherd_," they'll say. "_Shepherd? Why doesn't she do something? Won't she stop? Can she not fix this?_" In most cases, the answer was yes. Yes, I could probably fix their problems - as long as the 'solution' revolved around violence.

But those were also the places where I normally tugged my hood up more securely over my head, shielding as much of my face as I possibly could. But the whispers would still follow me all the way through whatever ghost of a town I was passing through. And I could always feel the dirty looks they would throw at my back - because I was the Shepherd, and I wasn't protecting them like they had heard of in the stories.

I couldn't protect them all. I just couldn't. Not entire communities where every family had an issue or a grudge or a bone to pick with the neighbors or the bandits across the way...

Now, lone travelers being ambushed and beaten and taken for all they were worth on the scraggly, sad excuses civilization now had for roads? That, I would not stand for - _especially_ when the person being attacked was of the female variety.

There were a lot of things that just absolutely rubbed me the wrong way. Roughing up girls - _using_ girls in the ways that these barbarians used them - was one of those things.

I walked slowly forward in order to properly assess the situation, pulling my hood down as low over my face as I could to shield my eyes from the blazing hot sun and give me the best visibility possible. They weren't being brutal - yet. They were playing with her - mocking her, teasing her. One brute was rifling through the contents of her bag that he had upturned onto the dry, dusty earth at his feet.

"Hey sweetie!" one man yelled as his mate roughly pushed the girl into his chest. "Why don't you come up here and give me kiss?"

She struggled to free herself from his grasp and finally got her right arm loose, then promptly used it to haul back and smash her elbow into his nose. He let her go out of necessity to clutch at his now bleeding face, and she ducked and ran towards the man with her bag. But before she could get there, one of the other men - a short, stick figure of a man - dove at her legs and knocked her to the ground.

By this time, I was about twenty paces from the scene and had gleaned as much as I could from this distance.

Four men. None of them appeared to have firearms - not that you saw many guns out in the middle of nowhere anyway. They looked poorly fed, as were most people nowadays. Their hair was gross - matted with filth and ratty from lack of hygienic practices. Their skin had a leathery look to it, as if they were out under the sun without protection all day, every day.

One victim. She had long, blonde hair that had fallen out of its braid and was obscuring most of her face in waves. The tiny bit of her face that I could see looked young, but not overly so. Probably fourteen. Or seventeen. Or somewhere in between - I was never a good judge of such things. She was wearing jean shorts that revealed long, smooth legs that ended in worn, brown boots made of leather. A white t-shirt covered her upper body, and she was wearing a brown vest of some sort.

The man who had knocked her to the ground was now scrambling to cover her body with his own. I could hear him taunting her, his voice carrying through the air between us in its uncannily high pitch. The girl was still struggling for all she was worth; she was putting up a damn good fight. And her vocabulary of cuss words was impressing me, even from this distance.

But enough was enough.

"Excuse me," I said, clearing my throat and allowing my voice to startle them into realizing that they were no longer alone. "But I think you need to let the girl go now."

The blonde had stopped struggling and her hair had fallen over her shoulders and down her back. I was close enough now that I could see her lovely eyes locked onto my face, searching the darkness of the cover of my hood for a set of eyes to look into - probably to reassure her that everything would be ok. I tilted my head down to my chest slightly in a subtle nod, hoping that she would understand.

"Excuse _me_," the guy who had been rifling through her bag said as he stood up slowly. He threw back the edge of his coat and rested his hand on the handle of some makeshift machete-esque weapon. I couldn't help but grin. "Why don't cha mind ya own business, _girl?_" I took this ignorant fool to be the leader.

This could be fun.

His 'minions' - including the one with the still-streaming-blood, probably-broken nose - stood and moved a few steps behind him. The one who had been straddling the blonde's waist yanked her up with him and drug her along. She kicked his shin roughly, and he cried out but didn't drop his grip on her wrist.

"I told you to let the girl go," I called out to the rat-like man.

"Don't cha be tellin' my men whats to do, little lady, ya hear me?" Leader Man bellowed at me. His words were partially slurred. Some part of the Sickness had affected him. He probably ruled these other three idiots by brute force and nothing more.

I looked down at the ground, lightly scuffing it with the toe of my left boot before looking up again. "I'll only say it one more time, you mother fucking imbecile..." I crouched down and lightly pressed my hands into the dust at my feet, collecting a thin layer on the palms of my cutoff gloves and fingertips. "...and then, you'll all be _dead_. Let..." I stood up and let my hands hang loosely at my sides, posed over my concealed, wickedly sharp daggers. "...the girl..." Leader Man made some kind of grunting sound, and Broken Nose on his left and Dumb Fuck on his right clumsily grabbed for their weapons.

I was a little disappointed that I didn't get to finish my third and final warning. Alas, you can't win 'em all.

In the flash of an eye, I had grabbed a dagger in each of my hands and thrown them with such precision and force that both men were soon lying flat out on their backs, gurgling sounds emitting from their throats as blood spilled out onto the ground around them, gushing fervently from between their clutching fingers. One was brave enough - or foolish enough - to wrench the weapon from his windpipe.

He died first.

Leader Man was visibly shaken at this point as he pulled his piece-of-shit machete weapon _thing_ from his belt and shakily held it up in front of him. If he was scared, then he wasn't as stupid as I had first thought.

"Stay back!" he shouted. "Stay away from me!"

"Let her go," I said. My voice was firm, steady, strong. I had known that this fight was mine to win from the beginning. Unfortunately for them, they were just now figuring it out.

"F-f-fine," he stuttered. "Just leave us alone!"

He took a step back as I was no more than seven or eight steps in front of him now. "I'll give you a head start," I whispered. "So start _running_." Leader Man turned around and nodded at Rat Face who promptly dropped the girl and took off. She fell to her knees, clutching at her wrists which were likely sporting bruises by now.

Leader Man took off running - _lumbering_ - after his buddy. I sighed, tilting my head from side to side, before reaching down and dislodging the knife from Broken Nose and prying the knife from Dumb Fuck's fingers. One right after the other, I threw them with impressive force - if I do say so myself - into the spinal columns of both of the retreating men.

They were malnourished; they hadn't run far, and my range was long... Even for a girl of such badassness as myself.

I walked the thirty or so paces to Leader Man and roughly yanked the dagger out. He was still alive. I kicked him over with the toe of my left foot, bent down, and slit his throat. Then I turned away and walked several more yards to Rat Face. He was twitching a bit, mumbling some nonsense that I couldn't understand. I pulled his head back by his filthy mane of hair and slit his throat before letting his head fall back into the dirt, face first. I collected my second dagger.

Turning back, I began to walk towards the girl and the two brutes' bodies where I had left them. When I approached the scene, the girl was crouched down on her haunches and organizing her things to place them back into her brown leather satchel. She looked up as I bent down to wipe the blades clean on Dumb Fuck's shabby excuse for trousers.

"You're the one they call Shepherd, aren't you." She said it in such a way that I knew it wasn't a question. She was just stating a conclusion that she had come to on her own. And I was fine with that - people tended to do it around me all the time.

"Why do you say that?" I asked. The words leaving my lips startled me a bit. I was never really one to make conversation. And I had also never openly inquired as to how the hell people seemed to _know me_ the way that they did.

I finished cleaning my weapons and stowed them back at my sides. My long trench coat fell down around my shins and fluttered in the slightest breeze; it was almost imperceptible. I reached over my shoulder to grab some water from the side of my backpack. My eyes locked on hers for the first time since I had walked back over to this area. She gestured to her own face, indicating that she was really indicating my own. "Your face," she said. "The scar." My hood had fallen down revealing my face and my long, wavy hair. I replaced my canteen and pulled a tie around my loose locks, putting all of my hair up into a high ponytail on top of my head.

Oh. Yes. The scar.

I quite literally rolled my eyes and mentally chastised myself. Of course people would have seen the scar. Probably my most discernable feature, the stories had spread - and I could even imagine their retelling now - "_Shepherd,_" they would say. "_The girl with the wicked scar down the left side of her face, she saved us..._"

"Ahh," I sighed the word. "Yes. Well, it is quite unique, unfortunately." How could I not have realized that my blasted _scar_ was the thing preventing my anonymity? Not that I could do anything about it in the end, I guess. But I felt childishly slow in that moment for having had to receive this explanation from this girl standing before me.

"Thanks," she mumbled.

I must have misheard her. "What?" I questioned, one eyebrow arched dangerously high as I wiped my gloves off on the loose pants that hung low on my narrow hips.

She stood up as she slung her bag over one shoulder and across her chest. "Thank you," she said. "You saved my life. I'm clearly in your debt."

"No, no," I waved one hand in her direction before turning and walking off in my original heading. "You don't owe me a damn thing, sweetheart. Nothing. Nada. No worries, I promise."

"But you saved me!" she proclaimed, running a few paces to catch up to me. She fell into step beside me easily. "I don't know about you, but I was always taught to never let any debt go unpaid." She flipped open the top of her satchel and pulled out a worn pair of aviators, placing them onto her face and turning to look over at me with a face-splitting, teeth-baring smile on her face.

"Who the hell taught you that?" I asked. "I think I need to have a word with them..." I mumbled the last words, trying not to acquiesce to this _child_ traveling along with me. Like she was some _companion_ or something. I shuddered at the thought. "Was it your mother? Seems like something a mother would teach."

"No," she was quick to supply. "Not my mother. I was raised by my father. I never knew my mother." Her voice fell quiet as she finished, and her eyes shifted from my face to the barren, shoddy path that was unfolding before us.

We walked along in silence for several long moments. It was getting dark. This would be one of those nights where I would have to seek shelter out here - in the wilderness. But tonight, it appeared that I would be finding shelter for _two_.

"I'm looking for her," Blondie finally broke the silence.

"Who?" I asked, already having lapsed into my own thoughts. I wasn't used to carrying on regular conversations while on the road, so I mustn't be judged for already having lost track of the exchange.

"My mother. I've been traveling west to find her for a few months now. Maybe... Maybe I can travel along with you for a while? Perhaps I'll get the opportunity to repay my debt to you."

She smiled over at me again, and I chuckled while shaking my head. "What makes you think I'm going the same direction as you?" I couldn't believe the words flowing out of my mouth, as if I was contemplating actually _letting her travel with me_. What was this madness?

"For starters, _everyone_ goes west. And we're going west right now!" She was chuckling now, but her chuckle was filled with less disbelief and with more mirth at the knowledge that she was right. We both knew it.

"Fine, I'm going west." I was quiet again for a few moments as I pursed my lips before running my tongue along the back of my teeth. "How old are you?"

"Sixteen," she replied.

Young enough that I wouldn't have to worry about latent side effects of the Sickness. "Mmm," I hummed out. I saw her smile down at the ground. She knew she had won. "Alright, sweetheart," I finally announced. "You can come along with me for now. So what's your name? Unless you prefer 'sweetheart' or 'Blondie' or 'little one' better?" I grinned over at her, trying to convey my joviality.

She turned to me and stopped. I stopped as well. She reached up with her left hand to her face, sliding her aviators up on top of her head and connecting her bright, hazel eyes with mine. She grinned - and it was sweet and innocent and I knew that she was probably a trouble maker (either in this life or another). "Hello, Shepherd," she said, sticking her bare hand out in front of her. I stared down at her dainty wrist before snapping my eyes back up to her face. "The name's Beth."

I grabbed her right hand in my own and shook. I was pleased to feel that the daintiness was only a misperception as her grip was deceptively strong.

"Nice to meet you, Beth, my dear," I said, my voice low as I accepted Fate in that moment. "You can call me Rach."


	2. Chapter 2

**The Sheriff**

Quinn Fabray fucking ruled the lands around what used to be called the Sacramento Valley with a god damned fist of iron. To question the law was to question her.

And you don't fucking question Quinn Fabray.

Malcolm was about to learn that the hard way.

A poor, weary traveler, Malcolm had made the mistake of stealing a bag of grain. '_It's for my family!_' he had shouted as the rough looking henchmen had bodily grabbed him and carried him down the street and away from his crying family. Dust swirled around their despondent forms as business commenced again as usual around them in the market. Tears poured from the eyes of Malcolm's wife and three small children.

Without him, they would probably be dead within the month from malnourishment. Or worse.

But Malcolm had stolen within the boundaries of the Fabray jurisdiction. And now he was kneeling on the hard, scuffed wood in front of Quinn Fabray. And he had never been more terrified in his life. He shifted uneasily on his knees as sweat dripped into his eyes, and he blinked rapidly trying to free the droplets from his lashes. He breathed in the hot, sticky air of the Valley through his nose with difficulty, and his clothes stuck to his body uncomfortably. The leather of the straps that was confining his wrists had been rubbing roughly against his flesh, and blood now dripped down his fingertips and to the floor steadily. He could hear it, the '_drip drip_' echoing through the silence. And there, just past the incessant '_drip drip_' was _her_. But he couldn't look up.

Malcolm _refused_ to look up. Truth be told, he was probably paralyzed from fear. The tales preceded this woman, this dealer of death with an infamously twisted sense of justice. In the daylight, people called her the Sheriff. But at night, in the comforting darkness and anonymity of peoples' own homes? There were other names for her, and none of them were so forgiving. She was like a dictator who had stolen into the Valley underneath the cover of darkness one night, eviscerating the local thugs and stringing gang leaders up on public display. Some semblance of peace descended on the Valley in the wake of such total decimation of the villainous population. So people had initially thought she was more of a saint than anything, but she had soon proven to be a competent and unyielding authority. The Sheriff made sure the people were protected, but she demanded complete and utter loyalty and adherence to her demands in return. And while before her reign they had to be careful not to cross paths with the dark, twisted villainy of the brutes and bastards who had been warped by the Sickness, now each and every person living in the Valley had to abide by the Sheriff's laws.

Because to question the law was to question her.

And no one fucking did that and lived to see another day.

The Sheriff's two hands of justice and duty were as different from each other as night and day – but they were no less terrifying than their leader, and neither was afraid of spilling blood. While the Sheriff often remained out of the public eye, her deputies could almost always be seen in the various districts within the Valley; always together, and always ready to carry out the wishes of their leader. The one with the dark hair always wore sunglasses, concealing her eyes from the people around her. She never smiled – or at least, no one who had seen her smile had ever lived to describe it. The other woman had long, blonde hair and a god damn breath-takingly beautiful smile that was mostly disconcerting to the people of the Valley because it was _always _there – even when she was slitting a man's throat who was twice her size. They went by their initials – S and B – though most people thought it was just a lot of BS that such tiny women could be so fearsome and lethal and _terrifying_.

But the three women together were known as the Unholy Trinity.

And they were fucking fearless.

"Tell me, Malcolm," the Sheriff spoke, and her words were so sickly sweet that Malcolm envisioned them dripping with honey from her lips. "Why are you here today?"

Malcolm shuddered. Her voice was low and raspy and it seemed to wash over him from head to toe. He licked his lips and tasted the saltiness of sweat. "I-I stole a bag of grain."

Suddenly, her boots were there in his immediate line of sight as he stared down at the floor. They were well worn and well taken care of, and Malcolm could immediately tell that they were made of much finer leather than any he had ever seen before in his life – let alone since the Sickness ravished humanity.

"Malcolm, Malcolm… You _stole?_"

The way she was talking to him now, he felt like a child. All he could do was nod.

"How long have you been in the Valley, Malcolm?" A single beat passed and then the Sheriff bent down to his level. She placed the tip of her finger underneath his chin, drawing his eyes up to hers.

He couldn't help but mentally chastise himself as he focused on that small contact of skin on skin, relishing the softness of her touch despite the fear that was still pulsing through his veins. And when he opened his eyes, he was faced with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life. "J-just a couple of weeks, Sh-Sheriff." _Think of your wife, Malcolm_, he told himself, leaning back ever so slightly and away from the touch of her skin.

"You obviously know what they call me. _Sheriff_. But had you not yet learned _why_ they call me that? Had you not yet been taught that _no one_ steals in my Valley, Malcolm?" He had turned his head away. Quinn stood and said, "Look at me, Malcolm." But he didn't look. So Quinn twisted her body, violently swinging her arm around and connecting with his face. His head jerked to the side, sweat flying off of his brow from the force of her blow. He spit blood onto the floor. Quinn's lip curled in disgust before she kneeled back down in front of him. As he lifted his head, blood dripping from his lip, he watched her face transform back into that of a goddess – sweet smile and kind eyes betraying the viciousness he had now witnessed firsthand. "I told you to look at me, Malcolm." He nodded shakily. He licked his lip and winced at the sting and the taste of copper. "Do you know that stealing is wrong, Malcolm?"

"Y-yes, Sheriff."

"But you stole anyway." He nodded. "Do you regret stealing that grain, Malcolm? Do you feel any remorse for what you've done? For stealing and disrupting the livelihood of another human being?" He whimpered and his chin quivered violently, but he didn't answer. "Are you sorry for what you've done, Malcolm?"

Malcolm had never been particularly brave. It had taken every ounce of his character to keep his family alive for as long as he had so far. He wasn't particularly strong, nor was he ever the smartest kid in class in his youth. But there was one thing that this new, strange order in the world had not yet taken from Malcolm. And that was his self-respect, his pride. So he clenched his jaw and willed his body to stop shaking, and he looked the Sheriff in her deceptively soft gaze, and he said, "No. I'm not sorry for stealing. The only thing I'm sorry for is that my family will go hungry tonight because I was caught doing it."

Malcolm held the Sheriff's gaze as she slowly stood from her crouched position. She turned her back on him and leisurely took a few steps across the room before walking back. She repeated this motion, pacing the floor in front of Malcolm as his lip and wrist continued dripping blood onto the floor underneath his knees.

He hadn't noticed the bloodstains that were present even before he entered the room.

"You're right. Your family will go hungry. Because you broke the law. And here you sit, bound and kneeling in front of me, and all you can say is that _you're not sorry?_" The honey in her voice was replaced with venom as she stared down at Malcolm as if he was a piece of trash.

Despite her intense glare of disgust, Malcolm simply nodded his head. "I was trying to provide for my children."

The Sheriff laughed then – a full on laugh that shook her body. Finally, she placed a single finger in front of her smiling lips as she regained her breath. "The people in _my_ Valley are honest, Malcolm – because I keep them honest. You could have gotten a job, Malcolm. You could have easily provided for your family. Instead, you _stole_ from my _people_. You were too fucking ignorant to _try_, so you saw a bag of grain and thought, 'I'll just take that for myself and my own,' and then you did it. You fucking did it, Malcolm, and now here you fucking are."

"You don't understand, I had to steal the grain. I haven't been able to find work, and my family –"

"There is _always_ work to be done and thus found. If your family needed it badly enough, you should have been willing to do _anything _to get fucking sustenance for them – unless it was _illegal_. That's where the line is drawn in this Valley. And that was the path that you chose, Malcolm. And that is the _last_ path that gets you what you need here under my jurisdiction."

Malcolm was desperate. He couldn't tell if she was going to kill him or berate him like a child and then set him free, completely devoid of the only thing he had walked into this room with – his dignity. "You can't possibly get where I'm coming from. My kids, they count on me. I was desperate, I had to do it."

"You don't think I understand devotion?" Quinn asked as she stopped pacing and squared her shoulders directly in front of his prone figure.

He should have considered his words. He should have formulated a response that appealed to the Sheriff's heart. He should have tried to stay alive.

There were a lot of things that he should have done.

Instead, he said, "How could you possibly understand the devotion I have to my family, to my _children? _You don't _have_ children, you could _never_ –"

His words abruptly turned into gurgling noises as his newly slit throat began gushing copious amounts of life. The Sheriff had sliced forward through the air in a smooth arc, the glisteningly sharp knife cutting through his flesh easily. His eyes widened comically, and a bead of sweat dripped down to hang suspended in his eyelashes.

Before he had the chance to fall forward on his face, the Sheriff grabbed him roughly by his hair and held him in his kneeling position. She leaned down in front of his gasping mouth, and she said, "Don't pretend like you _know_ me, Malcolm."

And then she stood up and stepped back, releasing his sweat-infused hair from her grasp and allowing his now-lifeless body to fall face first onto the floor.

The door opened, and in walked the Sheriff's right and left hands. It was as if the loud thump of Malcolm's body hitting the floorboards was exactly the signal they had been waiting for to come inside.

"Jesus, Q," S said simply as she walked around the room to a lounge chair, carefully avoiding stepping in the widening pool of blood. "Could you have taken any longer to handle that fucking idiot?"

"Santana," B chastised with a light smile on her face and laughter in her voice as she plopped down in the other girl's lap. "Language!" She singsonged the word, and Quinn rolled her eyes.

Santana breathed heavily through her nose as she clenched her teeth. She wasn't used to being told what to do. But the only two people alive on the face of the earth who could fucking get away with it were in this room with her. And there really wasn't anything that she wouldn't do for the girl sitting in her lap, arm wrapped around her neck. So sure, she would try to clean up the language. Again. "Sorry, Britt."

Brittany just giggled and leaned forward, pressing a light kiss to Santana's lips. Barely a moment passed before Santana was parting the other girl's lips with her tongue and tasting the sweetness that was Brittany. Both girls moaned as Santana's hand crept up under her tight, form-fitting shirt and lightly squeezed one of her perfect –

Quinn coughed. "Do you guys mind?" She crossed her arms and leaned heavily against the wall, waiting for them to acknowledge her.

Santana pulled grudgingly away from her lover's mouth to address Quinn. "Just because you're bitter that you don't have someone to fuck? _Please_. We've offered to let you join in before; it's your own damn fault that you never play with us." Her eyes rolled back in her head as Brittany licked a trail from her collarbone to her earlobe. The wetness glistened in the fading light from the window. "You have no idea what you're missing out on…"

And then they were making out again. Quinn sighed as she turned, leaning against the windowpane and staring out into the quickly descending darkness. She heard a mosquito buzz next to her ear, the droning loud and obnoxious. She waved her hand in its direction. The mosquito was gone, but the sounds of her friends' mouths and occasional moans were not.

Quinn pressed her forehead against the window. The glass was cool against her skin. She closed her eyes as her breath crossed her parted lips in a slow rush of air. People thought she was a cold-hearted bitch. And maybe she was. But in the last ten minutes, she had two very sensitive subjects tossed into her face as if they were nothing; one responsible party now lay bleeding out across the room, and the other knew she could get away with it. Because Quinn loved her in that way where transgressions were often forgiven before the moment had even fully passed.

No, Quinn didn't have someone she particularly wanted to fuck. Nor did she have someone to hold onto when things got rough. She wasn't a needy person. She had proved that time and time again. She was ruthless. Her daddy had always taught her how to get what she wanted – and if someone else had it first? Well, fuck them – all she had to do was _take it_. So that's what Quinn had done here. She had fucking walked into town and taken what she wanted. She had garnered an infamous reputation for herself.

Because maybe if the word spread fast and far enough, _she _would come.

Malcolm most certainly didn't know Quinn Fabray in the slightest. If he had, he would never have prodded at her apparent lack of family. He would have known better. But no one really _knew_ Quinn Fabray. If anyone was close to really understanding her, it would be the two girls fucking not ten feet away from her – in _her_ chair, at that. They had been with her the longest. They had fought together. They had killed together. In the early days, they had laid together on Quinn's bed in a mass of tangled limbs, crying tears of fear and uncertainty.

Once, Quinn had brutally executed a seventeen-year old boy publicly because he had raped a fifteen-year old girl, a girl with blonde hair and light eyes and a face that may never smile again. She had despondently stolen into Brittany and Santana's quarters late that same night when she realized that the sweet release of sleep wasn't coming – and even if she _could_ have fallen asleep, she knew the nightmares would have been close behind anyway. The women had been naked, and the humid air of the valley caused their skin to shine with a light sheen of sweat. But as she pulled off her shirt and dropped it at her feet while still moving towards their bed, a wretched sob escaped Quinn's throat. Brittany woke first and immediately flew out of bed, grabbing Quinn's face between her hands and lightly placing a kiss on her lips and then her forehead. She helped Quinn out of the rest of her clothes and into bed where Santana was propped up on an elbow with an uncommon frown of concern and sympathy on her face. They slept together in the bed, Quinn sandwiched comfortably between these girls who were really more than friends. They were her family.

But of course, Quinn had more family before the Sickness. And the fine line that Malcolm had completely stumbled and crashed over about having children and the obvious _fact_ that Quinn had none ultimately led to his death.

Well, that's not necessarily true. From the moment Quinn had him brought into the room, she knew he wouldn't fucking be walking out alive.

But _taunting _her about children – if it could even be called taunting (Quinn decided that it could be) – was the last god damned straw.

Quinn had left her. She had left her because she fucking _had to_. She couldn't explain it then. She couldn't write some bullshit letter for her daughter to read someday. She couldn't leave word with her child's fucking _father_ either. But it had been necessary for her to leave. So she had done just that. She had left her daughter behind, crying on the porch and reaching her pudgy little arms out, screaming the only word she knew, '_Mama! Mama!_' into the night. And Santana and Brittany had met her half a mile down the road, and they hadn't said a word; but Santana had laced her fingers with Quinn's, offering silent comfort the best way she could.

Quinn couldn't explain _then_, but she thought that maybe she could explain _now._

So she had built up her reputation – her fucking _awful_ reputation. She killed mercilessly, but she did it to protect the people who couldn't protect themselves. She killed to maintain order and peace and to give them a chance to live, to _thrive._ The stories would inevitably spread of her Valley, one of the only places left in the world (as far as any of them knew) where you could actually _live_ and not just _survive_. As long as that story spread, Quinn couldn't care less about the nasty stories about her cruelty that spread with it.

Her daughter was sixteen now. She would find her, Quinn was more certain of that than anything else in the world – not that there was a lot of certainty left in the world as it was.

Beth had to find Quinn. She just had to.

Quinn sniffed and swiped at the tear tracks that were making their way down her cheeks. She sighed heavily, angry that she had let her emotions get the best of her. And over Malcolm and his dumbfuck words? He wasn't worth it.

Pointedly ignoring her friends as they fucked in the high-backed, winged chair, Quinn walked across the room and grabbed hold of Malcolm's worn, dirty boots. She dragged him over to the door, kicking it open. His arm got stuck on the doorframe as she pulled him through. She gave a tremendous jerk to his lower limbs, and a sickening crack resounded in the quiet space of the hallway. His shoulder now jutted out at an ungodly angle, but he was loose from the hinge.

Quinn dropped his legs, and they thudded heavily against the floor. "Evans!" she yelled down the stairs, leaning heavily against the rickety banister.

A head appeared at the bottom of the wraparound stairs. "What's up, Boss?"

"Get up here, please." Yes, she said please. She _was_ capable of politeness.

He quickly climbed the stairs, taking them two at a time. Once he got to the landing, he toed the still-warm body of Malcolm, flipping him over onto his back. Quinn rolled her eyes at the brunette kid in front of her. Well, she thought of him as a kid – the truth was that he was only four or five years younger than Quinn.

"I need you to get rid of him, Sam."

"No problem, Boss."

"And send someone to clean up the room," she jerked her thumb over her shoulder to the room where she had killed Malcolm. Sam nodded as he grabbed the lifeless body and tossed it almost effortlessly over his shoulder. "But don't send them up immediately. The girls are _busy_ right now."

Sam chuckled knowingly. "Sure thing, Boss." He winked as he passed by where she stood on his way down the stairs. She suppressed the urge to slap him over the head. He had been loyal to Quinn since she saved his life a few years ago, just before they made it to the Valley. He had followed her around like a lost puppy for a while before eventually finding his niche in their dysfunctional group: it was simple, he was the muscle. And Quinn rewarded him by keeping him well-fed and clothed and putting a roof over his head and a bed underneath him at the end of the night.

They had fucked once. Because Quinn literally hadn't in years, and something had to be done about the situation. Santana and Brittany were gone, in the middle of the district rounds that would have them away from home for days. So when Quinn broke, they weren't there to help – which was unfortunate because they really did offer _all the time_. But Sam was. It had been lackluster and Quinn had walked her naked form from Sam's room, up the stairs, and into her own room before she couldn't hold back her tears any longer.

There was a lot of pain in her heart. But fuck all if she was going to let the people she ruled over know that for even a god damned _second_.

Quinn Fabray was the Sheriff. And to question the law was to question her.

And no one fucking questions Quinn Fabray.

* * *

><p><em>AN: So there's a little different PoV for you, hope it was enjoyable. And thank you for the kind responses to the first chapter! I'll probably be alternating updates of this story with another one I'm working on now, so this might get updated once a week or so, just so ya know.  
><em>


	3. Chapter 3

**The Shepherd**

I may have had no choice but to accept Fate in the form of my new traveling companion, Beth, but that didn't mean I had to be happy about the fact that I now had to find shelter for _two_ instead of one. A twist in my plot, and suddenly whatever sparse plans I had previously had were going awry, tossed into the winds of uncertainty.

If I was alone, it would have been simple. I could have curled up against a boulder for all I really cared, comfort be damned. But suddenly, I find myself faced with a sixteen-year old girl to take care of. I don't think she realizes how tempestuously my thoughts are swirling with the possible hardships we now face.

Packs of wild dogs. More idiotic barbarians of the wilderness. A single wrong step could lead to a twisted ankle or worse, and then what?

In the distance, I see some type of structure. It's slightly off course – more to the north than I would prefer to go just for a place to sleep – but it would serve its purpose tonight.

I was pleased when Beth noticed as I altered my path.

"Why are we going north?" she questioned.

I raised my arm and pointed towards the sparse landscape on the horizon, the jutting form of some sort of building in the distance. "Whatever that is, it could be shelter for the night." The sun was getting lower in the sky. I found myself biting the inside of my cheek, hoping that we would get there before much more time had the opportunity to pass. I didn't want to get to the building only for night to have fallen – there could be occupants already, and I'd prefer to deal with them in the daylight.

Out of nowhere, I felt a breeze against my cheeks. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply as I continued towards our new destination. "There's water nearby," I said. I saw Beth's head tilt towards me skeptically. I glanced over at her and saw a cocked eyebrow and a cheeky grin on her face. "What?" I questioned her demeanor.

A single laugh escaped her lips. "How on earth could you know that? This god-forsaken land we've been walking across all day doesn't lend itself to the presence of water nearby."

"Well, there's water nearby." I couldn't help but grin a little bit as she shook her head again, kicking at a rock in her path. A small cloud of dust arose at her feet. "If I had to guess, I'd say that building has something to do with the water supply. I'd be surprised if people don't live there, what with how scarce a commodity fresh water is out here."

But as dusk was falling over the land and we made it to the building – which was closer than I had anticipated and ended up being little more than a small, two-room farmhouse-like structure, long abandoned and mostly ransacked at this point – I was pleased to find it unoccupied. The fresh smell of water kept tugging at my senses as I quickly checked every last nook and cranny of the building.

"It's gotta be here _somewhere_…" I mumbled to myself, kicking at loose floorboards and knocking on walls. As Beth checked the cabinets for anything useful, I stepped out the backdoor.

As soon as I saw the boarded up hole in the ground, I knew what it was. It was likely that people hadn't set up some sort of permanent residence here before simply because they were too ignorant to recognize a closed well when they saw one.

I approached the area with a smile on my face, carefully leaning down and pulling on one of the boards. It was old and dry, and it easily cracked in half under the pressure of my hands. Dust flared up around my face, and I blew air out of my nose to clear it, but not soon enough – I sneezed loudly.

I heard a window slide open. "Bless you!" Beth called out from the house.

Chuckling and shaking my head from side to side, I muttered, "Yeah, yeah."

Before it got any darker, I yelled for Beth to bring her stuff out back. We filled our canteens and bottles with the fresh, clean liquid from the bottom of the well before I carefully replaced the boards as best as I could. We walked back towards the house, and I closed the door behind us. I jiggled the lock in its place – it was broken and useless. I found an old glass in one of the cabinets and set it just a few inches from the door – in case it should open in the night, the glass would be knocked over and I would wake up.

If I could even find sleep in the first place, that is.

I placed a similar setup by the only other door that was part of the structure before taking off my pack and tossing it lightly in the middle of the floor. The room was mostly empty, having long ago been torn apart by scavengers or desperate travelers – who knew? I lowered myself to the floor with my legs crossed underneath me. Beth took a seat a few feet away from me; she was leaning back against a wall with her feet crossed in front of her as she opened her own bag.

We hadn't talked about food yet. But as soon as I knew that she would be traveling with me, I knew that I would let her share whatever food I had.

She sipped her water and seemed grateful when I handed her some of the food I had already subconsciously rationed out for the two of us. "Thanks," she said, smiling sheepishly. "I have a few things, but I don't know how long –"

I waved her off. "It's fine. I'm pretty decent at being able to feed myself. I'll make sure you get food as well."

I couldn't help but notice how she ate quickly while trying to slow down her consumption at the same time. She must have been struggling to find sustenance for a while now.

We finished eating in silence, we cleaned up in silence, and we laid down on the dusty floor in silence. My legs were sticking out in front of me, toes in the air. Beth was lying across the small room from me, and her ankles were stretched out and next to my own. I could feel the warmth of her bare feet against my calf. My hands cupped the back of my head as I looked up at the still-intact ceiling and the water spots spreading across its surface. My ears – by now, meticulously-trained – listened for the slightest disturbance outside. They listened for the most subtle scuff of boots against dirt or the creak of dry leather. But it was quiet, so I finally allowed my eyes to drift shut against the thick, heavy darkness that was beginning to fall across the house.

I tried clearing my mind. I tried not thinking about yesterday or tomorrow, past or future. Right now – _this moment _– was all that was certain. It was what I had been trying to ingrain in my consciousness for a long time now. On nights like these – when all I _could_ think about was the days of the past and the darkness of the future, I knew that my attempts at conditioning myself to not care hadn't worked, would probably _never_ work.

"Do you think we were destined to meet?" Beth asked, her voice quietly drifting through the thick air of the room between us.

I had thought of it as Fate earlier, that it was _Fate_ that brought us together, that it was _Fate_ that I would have been fighting against if I pushed her away.

But what the fuck did that mean?

I didn't answer her question. I didn't know the answer. Fate and Destiny were two very different mistresses.

"I mean, do you think that my being with you now – in this moment, tonight, tomorrow morning – or you even saving my life in the first place… Do you think that will change where we end up down the road? Next week or month or year? Do you think that, at the end of our lives when we're looking back and trying to find that defining moment, we'll think about this night? Like, I wonder if I'll live to be old and wrinkly, and I'll think back to now – sharing food in some abandoned house and sleeping on the dusty floor, feeling more safe than I have in a long time…" She trailed off momentarily. I felt her body shift, and her ankles were no longer next to mine. "It just feels like one of those moments, you know?"

When she finally stopped speaking, I felt all of the questions she had asked swirling around in my mind. I opened my eyes for no other reason than to have something to focus them on – even if it was only the darkness between my face and the ceiling.

My first thought was how absurd it was for someone her age to even think about living to be old and wrinkly. And then I thought that maybe, just maybe, someone as young as she was would have the best shot of all of us when everything was said and done. And maybe I'd live a while too. And maybe I'd die sometime in the future, and this night would flash in my mind – how simple it was to share a meal with an almost-stranger and lay down at night in the darkness of an abandoned house and to have the security of fresh water fifty feet away, how these incredibly _simple _things might just be part of the intricate web of Destiny.

"Yeah," I finally said, "it does feel like one of those moments."

She didn't say anything for a long time. I figured she had fallen asleep waiting on my reply. My mind finally began to slow down enough that I felt it was safe to close my eyes. A few moments after I did, I heard her whisper again slip through the darkness. "Goodnight, Rach."

I breathed in and out through my nose once, savoring the feeling of fresh air. "Goodnight, little one."

I didn't hear her chuckle so much as I felt it. But that was enough.

* * *

><p>My eyes snapped open. It was still pitch-black. Not even the moon was out tonight. But it wasn't my sense of sight that I found myself relying upon in those moments.<p>

It was my hearing.

Because there was something different in the room. Something had shifted. It wasn't right…

And then I heard it – the sound that had awakened me from my light slumber.

The slightest of sniffles, the ragged exhalation of a breath as Beth valiantly tried to hide the fact that she was sobbing.

I remained stock still for several long moments… My mind was suddenly racing. If she was trying to cover up her distress, did that mean that she didn't want me to question her about it? What if she was hurt? What if she needed… comfort?

I was used to dealing out violence. I was used to saving people from harm.

I was not used to holding someone, whispering reassurances in their ear… Comfort was not something I had truly given or received in a long, long time. It was practically a different lifetime since I had been in such a situation…

* * *

><p><em>I had been denied again. <em>

_I knew when I moved to New York without college prospects that I would just be another dime-a-dozen girl chasing after her Broadway dreams. I had known this, I really had. But I had done it anyway. My parents had watched me pack up my little car with whatever belongings I owned – things I couldn't even recall now if I tried – and head east._

_And now, here I was – six full months of rejection and heartache later – sitting at a bar downtown with a martini glass between my fingertips._

_Fuck the martini, really. I needed a shot or four of whatever hard liquor was closest at hand._

"_Two shots of Jameson," I heard a low, rough voice say to my left._

_I allowed my head to loll back and around on my shoulders before locking the man in my line of vision. He was muscular with broad shoulders and strong facial features. His skin was dark and his nose was strong – a fellow attractive Jew, obviously. His hair was shaved into a mohawk, and my slightly inebriated senses felt some kind of odd pull towards him._

"_I'll have the same," I called out to the bartender as she passed me on her way to pull out two shot glasses. She nodded, pulling out two more and placed all four in a line. "On him," I added, winking in his direction. He just smiled – half a smile, and not with his eyes – and I thought that was at least a gentlemanly reaction of him._

_The four shots were poured and sitting in front of us as he had taken the empty seat next to me. We each took our two shots, never breaking eye contact. We didn't even speak. I didn't learn his name. He didn't learn mine. But we walked the two blocks over and up to his apartment. His roommate was playing a video game on the couch and just waved at him as we headed towards his bedroom. On the way there, he stopped and stuck his head in a door – I caught sight of a small bed and a pillow strewn with blonde hair before the door was suddenly closed again and we were back on track to his bedroom._

_To his bed, where we fucked._

_After the deed was done, I lay on top of his sheets wearing nothing but a light layer of sweat. His shoulder was a few inches from mine. We were separated by silence and darkness and all the things we hadn't said and all the kisses we hadn't shared. Suddenly, I heard him sniff._

_I hadn't been with a lot of people sexually. But I had never caused someone to cry before, either. So the panic that set in on my part was immediate and, I think, understandable._

_I sat up and leaned closer to him. "What's wrong?" I asked._

"_I'm such a shitty father," he had said, pounding both of his fists down on the bed next to him. "I'm just a failure."_

"_I'm sure you're not," I said, stroking the side of his face. He wasn't really crying – it was more like a slight leakage out of the side of one of his eyes. But I knew he was hurting, and I knew that I didn't understand why. "You seem like a lovely person." I didn't know what else to say._

_He shook his head. "How do I know whether or not I'm doing everything right?"_

"_You mean, raising your daughter?"_

_He nodded._

_I bit my lip. "You won't know, I guess." He turned to me then, looking me dead in the eyes and asking for more than that. "You won't know until she's done being raised, whether or not you've done a decent job at it." His form seemed to fall then, down into the mattress even further than I thought possible. "But you care more than a lot of parents surely do, and I think that means something. I have faith that she'll be just fine." He nodded again. "I think you'll be just fine as well, in case you were worried."_

_And then I held his head in my arms, kissing his forehead and stroking my fingertips across his chest. I simply held him against me as his hands came up and clung to my arms. For such a strong man, there was something about my tiny frame that was protecting him from more than just his uncertainty. My hair came down around us, forming a curtain. He leaned up, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, and kissed my cheek tenderly._

"_Thank you," he whispered against my skin._

_He walked me home. And it was the most loved I had felt in a long time._

* * *

><p>I hesitated only a moment longer before standing up and walking quietly the couple of feet to Beth's form on the ground. My eyes had adjusted to the oppressive darkness, and I could see her body wrapped up in the fetal position below me. Slowly, I knelt down, placing one of my hands behind her on the ground before lowering my entire body down next to hers.<p>

I felt her stiffen next to me. "It's ok," I whispered from just above her neck. "It's ok." And then she was breaking into pieces, falling apart right in front of me. Her sobs – suddenly without constraint – lightly echoed in the empty space around us. Instinctively, my arms reached out and wrapped around her. Our bodies pressed together now, I felt her trembling against me.

Minutes passed by without exchange of anymore words before Beth finally said, "I had a nightmare. About those guys from earlier…" She paused, and her trembling became more pronounced than ever. I wrapped my arms more tightly around her body and pressed my lips against her hair. "Thank you for saving my life."

I reached up and brushed away her tears with my hand. Her cheek was soft underneath my fingertips and my arms involuntarily shuddered. She finally made a move, grabbing my hand from her face and holding it against her lips. She kissed my palm, and I felt her warm breath against the sensitive skin of my hand. "It's ok," I said again. It was as if these words were the only ones I knew anymore – no matter how untrue they were most of the time.

Her body slowly stopped trembling, but she never released my hand. I didn't have to reassure her that I wasn't going anywhere – I simply wasn't leaving her. I don't think I would have even if it were an option at that point. Her breathing eventually evened out, and I felt her body relax back against mine. I finally relaxed as well, content knowing that she was resting, safe and sound under my protection and comfort.

As my eyes again closed for the night and I allowed the peaceful calm of sleep to overtake me, I was struck with the oddest sense that everything really was going to be ok. I slept more peacefully in those few precious hours than I had in a long time.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Warning - smut._

**The Sheriff**

_The world was black and white, and gravel was crunching underneath the soles of Quinn's tennis shoes. The air was thick with humidity. Beads of sweat were already blossoming across her forehead. The sun was just beginning to drop from the sky as Quinn shifted her gaze upwards and caught sight of birds flying away. She wished - not for the first time in the past several hours - that she could just fly away as well._

_And while her brain was strangely fuzzy and muffled, Quinn still realized somewhere in the recesses of her thoughts that she __**couldn't**__ leave. She couldn't leave because of __**her**__._

_Beth._

_Quinn's pace picked up. She had to get home. She couldn't remember why, exactly. It had something to do with the tornado sirens that were sounding. But there wasn't a cloud in the sky, why were the sirens sounding? Oh, yes. She suddenly remembered..._

_The Sickness had made its way to their little town. It was finally time to act._

_They probably should have acted months ago._

_A white picket fence loomed ahead in the distance. A beautiful, two-story house was nestled just beyond its borders. At the sight of her home, Quinn gave up on walking - she began to run as fast as her toned legs could carry her._

_She jumped up the three porch steps in one huge bound, landing on the doormat and skidding a couple of inches to a stop. Her hand reached out to touch the doorknob, and she hesitated. The metal was hot underneath her fingertips from the summer sun, and she let it burn into her skin before finally grasping it fully and twisting. The bolt scraped reassuringly from its place in the door frame, unlocked and inviting Quinn to step inside._

_The door's hinges creaked as she pushed it open fully. But she didn't step inside yet. Her head twisted from left to right, searching outside the house for a sign of her parents' cars. Because the Sickness had come, and Quinn didn't know who had been exposed and who hadn't - though she had an awful, sinking suspicion. Reports were new, fresh, not to be trusted. No one knew who exactly was susceptible and who wasn't. Running into her parents was a risk she couldn't take._

_Quinn turned back to look into the foyer beyond the open door. Her ears strained to listen. But this black and white existence was confusing and silence was oddly pressing against her eardrums. All she heard was her own shallow breathing and the pumping of blood from her chest to her extremities._

_Breath.  
>Lub dub.<br>Lub dub.  
>Breath.<br>Lub dub.  
>Lub dub.<br>Breath._

_The first step she took inside the quiet house, a hardwood panel creaked underneath her sneaker. She flinched and held her breath, but still - there was nothing. Propelling herself forward, Quinn ran up the main stairs, jumping them three at a time while still trying to keep her footfalls soft, quiet, undetectable._

_She sprinted down the hallway, thankful for the silence afforded her by the carpet. Once she reached the bedroom of her childhood - because at this point, where had her childhood gone, really? - she closed and locked the door behind her. Forgoing all stealth, she bounded over to her closet and grabbed a duffel bag._

_Minutes later, she had packed all manner of clothes and shoes and worldly possessions she could get her hands on into that single bag._

_The radio broadcast was still resounding in her ears, bits and pieces that she would never be able to forget - not even, apparently, in her worst nightmares._

_**...has reached Lima...**_

_**...this reporter witnessed it himself...**_

_**...local bank completely overrun by...**_

_**...all government operations ceased as city hall became inundated by both those who...**_

_**...oh god...**_

_**...the door, lock the god damned door -**_

_Quinn's mother worked at the bank. And Quinn's father was a government official whose office was located in city hall. Her heartbeat pounded more furiously in her chest as she tried to ignore what this meant for her, for her family._

_Even though they had mostly stopped being her family when they kicked her out for getting herself knocked up._

_Sex with Puck. Pregnant. Losing her home, her family. Childbirth. Staring down at her beautiful baby girl. Living again. Living with Puck and Beth and trying to start fresh._

_It was too much for her. Quinn was on her knees and she couldn't breathe. Her fists clenched and grasped over and over again at the soft carpet between her fingers._

_"Beth," she breathed out. Her body shuddered and shivered and shook, and she pounded her fist once, twice against the floor before resolution stiffened her shoulders._

_Quinn stood and grabbed her packed bag. She had to make it to Puck's. She had to find him. She had to get Beth. They had to leave. They could make it, together. If they stuck together, they would be fine. She just had to make it there._

_Her world shifted beneath her feet, and she was at her bedroom door with her duffel bag strapped to her back. Her fingers flipped the lock, and she pulled the door open._

_And Quinn's blood froze in her veins as she was met with the staggeringly intimidating form of Russell Fabray._

_"Daddy."_

_He growled. He literally growled. Russell had always been easy to anger, but he was often more articulate. Quinn's eyes were impossibly wide as he took one step forward and she took three steps back, landing halfway on her bed._

_"Quinn." Her name left his lips in another growl, and she shuddered. Spit flew from his lips, and her eyes watched its path. She sighed a miniscule sigh of relief as it landed two feet in front of her._

_"I thought you had work today," Quinn said. She was thankful that she was able to utter the words without stuttering._

_"I did," Russell said, confirming that he had likely been at city hall when the scared, infected masses had swarmed - seeking relief or safety or __**whatever**__ it was people looked for when they were lost and terrified._

_Quinn gulped and inched her way to the edge of the bed. She had to make it out of this house. She had to get away. She had to get to Beth, to Puck._

_"Daddy," she said once more, trying to convey to him that she was still his little girl. She looked into his eyes. They were bloodshot. His skin was flushed, and he was sweating profusely. His hands were shaking uncontrollably._

_He was starting to froth at the mouth._

_Quinn squeezed her lips shut, repressing a scream as he stepped into the room. She noted that his movements were more clumsy than usual. She could make it out of here, she could make it out and things would be ok._

_Hopping over her bed, Russell followed her. "This isn't your house anymore," Russell rumbled from deep within his chest. "You don't belong here!" He was yelling now, and lunging at her. His fingertips closed on the hem of her shirt as Quinn jumped once more over the bed and out of his reach. She wrenched her body forward, and the shirt ripped in his grasp. "QUINN!" he bellowed in her wake as she sprinted out the bedroom door and practically fell down the stairs on her way outside._

_The air was still oppressive once she escaped the confines of the house, but she could breathe more easily than she had been able to breathe in her room - with her infected father on her heels, his touch and his acrid breath too close to her for comfort or safety._

_Quinn took off running, the duffel bag bouncing methodically against her back. She didn't stop when Judy Fabray's weaving vehicle approached her on the road, and she didn't stop when her mother called out to her from the rolled down window, "Quinnniieee!" It only took the briefest of glances to see that her mother was already another statistic._

_Quinn was swimming in tears by the time she let herself slump against the gate that led into Puck's yard. She sobbed into the back of her hand. Had she gotten too close to Russell? Had she let herself get infected? Would she become another victim of the Sickness?_

_She pulled out her phone and sent a text to Santana._

_**Ran into Russell. I don't know if I'm safe anymore.**_

_Sinking down to her knees in the dirt, Quinn clutched the phone in her hands and looked towards the house. The screen door banged open, and a tiny girl stepped outside. She immediately dropped down to the ground and started playing with a doll she had left there earlier. Quinn remembered - she had been playing with her a few hours before. Even from this distance where Quinn could no longer make out the Osh Kosh overalls and the polka dotted shoes on her feet, Quinn knew every last detail that belonged to the little girl on the porch with the doll in her hands._

_Her phone vibrated._

_**Brit and I are in the same boat. I barely got her out of her parents' house in time. We have to leave, Q. We've all been exposed. Where are you?**_

_**Puck's.**_

_Her tears started to dry up as she waited on Santana's response. She glared at the phone when she received the message that she knew was coming - the message that held all the potential to crush her completely._

_**You know you can't see Beth, Q. You can't risk her like that. We need to leave. You can come back for her someday. When it's safe again. Brit and I are on our way to you. We'll be there soon. Be strong.**_

_The tears flowed faster, harder than ever before. A sob echoed from her throat into the black and white, and the sun was setting overhead._

_Beth heard her, and Quinn saw her little head perk up on her shoulders. "No," Quinn wanted to scream it out. She couldn't notice her now. If Beth came to her, she could get sick. If Beth got close to her, Quinn would never be able to leave her._

_Just as Beth started to stand, a gleeful smile on her face and "Mama!" on her lips, the front door opened and Puck's little sister stepped out. She immediately spotted Quinn kneeling in front of the gate and swooped down to grab Beth up into her arms._

_Quinn would eternally be grateful for Abigail's strength in that moment when she had lost the last of her own. _

_"Where is Puck?" Quinn managed to yell out. Beth giggled and struggled in Abby's arms._

_"He's getting supplies. I told him to be careful," Abby responded. Her face was neutral. She was only fourteen, but she had always been sharp, smarter than most people gave her credit for - much like her older brother._

_"And your mom?" Abby just shook her head. Quinn cleared her throat and called back, "Yeah, mine too. I..." she trailed off. She had never been good at saying goodbye. How could she explain? "I ran into my dad."_

_Abby's eyes widened. "Quinn..."_

_"I know," Quinn replied, standing up. "I'm not sure if... Well, I'm just not sure. I can't... I don't know..."_

_Abby nodded. "I'll tell Puck."_

_And that was that. Quinn didn't tell Abby to send her love. Quinn didn't leave any messages. Abby understood - Quinn had been exposed, and she couldn't stay. There was no time for goodbyes._

_"Beth," Quinn whispered the name. And then she turned and walked away._

_"Mama! Mama!" echoed behind her, and her heart shattered into a thousand shards of smooth, cold glass._

_When she met Santana and Brittany half a mile down the road, they didn't say a word. They just started walking west. Because they didn't know what else to do. They were barely eighteen years old, and they were now alone, together. Santana's fingers squeezed Quinn's tightly, and she continued to cry. Brittany's fingertips brushed against the hot skin of Quinn's lower back, exposed from where Russell had torn her shirt in her hasty attempt at escape._

_One final, shrill "Mamaaa!" resounded in the oppressive silence surrounding her eardrums, and Quinn screamed._

* * *

><p>As Quinn's body shot upward off of the bed, completely drenched in sweat from the realism of her dream - her <em>nightmare<em> - she attempted to calm the pulsating thump of her heart.

It had been real. It had been _so fucking_ real. But it was the past. It could _stay_ in the past, if only Quinn's mind would let it.

The tears streamed down her face with a vengeance, silently cutting tracks across her perfect skin. But the time for whimpering and whining was over.

She threw her covers off of her body, placing her feet resolutely on the floor. The wood was cold beneath her bare toes, but Quinn remained unaffected as she headed for the only people in the world who would understand - the only people who could give her the _comfort_ she needed.

Santana and Brittany had been her anchor, her support when she needed them the most. Santana's text that afternoon had kept Quinn from being rash and running to Beth in her weakest moment, and Brittany's warm embrace that night had kept Quinn from racing back through the darkness to Beth and Puck.

That day, Quinn had given up one family for another.

On her way to the door, she stubbed her toe on her bed frame. "Ow!" she exclaimed. "Fucking _fuck_!" The tears hadn't stopped since she woke up, but they did now - because stubbing her fucking toe on her fucking bed just made her _angry._ She was suddenly angrier than she had let herself be in a long time. She turned on her heel, walking to the closest wall and literally punching her fist through it.

"Whoa," she heard from the room connected to hers.

"Fuck," she muttered under her breath as she roughly pulled her fist out of the wall. The room was lightly illuminated by moonlight, and she saw white powder covering her hand. She flexed her fingers, and blood began to seep through.

The door creaked open, and Sam stuck his head inside. "You ok, boss?" he questioned.

"Bring me a bandage for my hand, please," she replied shortly.

He disappeared and was back a minute later, cleaning off her hand and wrapping the bandage around it. Quinn averted her gaze from his face, choosing instead to look at his defined abs.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he softly questioned when he finished.

"No," Quinn abruptly replied. "I don't want to fucking _talk_ about it. I don't _need_ to fucking talk about it. Alright?"

He held up his hands in a placating gesture as he backed out of the room. "You got it, boss." He made a motion indicating the zipping of his lips, and then he was gone.

Quinn hung her head. The fierce flame of her anger had burnt out as quickly as it had grown into life. Now, she was left alone again - feeling broken and fragile and lost. Dreams elicited memories that were better left buried.

She lifted her chin and left her room, headed in the direction of her initial destination.

They would know how to make her _feel_ again. And feeling _anything _was better than this hellhole of torture - memories of a time that Quinn couldn't change.

Foregoing a knock, Quinn pushed open Brittany and Santana's door. She walked across the floor, leaving a trail of clothes in her wake. As she moved closer, she took in the sleeping figures on the bed. Brittany, curled into a ball, pressing her head against Santana's bare chest. And Santana, one arm wrapped protectively around Brittany's shoulders even in her sleep.

A floorboard creaked, and Santana's eyes snapped open. Quinn didn't stop her forward progression until she was mere inches from the bedside. "Santana..." Her voice sounded small to her ears, weak and insufferable. When had she become this fucking _shell_?

Santana's free hand reached out and grasped at Quinn's uninjured hand, easily lacing their fingers together as she had done so many times before. The fiery Latina had always been capable of incorrigible crassness, but there was another side of her that she only showed in moments like these - moments where Brittany or Quinn needed her to understand. And she always understood. She knew when to be gentle and how to make all of the bad things disappear. Santana knew how to take care of them, even though she would never admit it.

"What's wrong, Quinn?" Santana questioned softly. Her arm that was wrapped around Brittany began to rub the blonde's shoulders, softly waking her from her deep sleep.

"Everything," Quinn managed to whisper. Her voice was hoarse. "Nothing." Her eyebrows furrowed and she shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to make sense of her emotions. "_Something_," she finally choked out as the tears returned full force.

Brittany's eyes had blinked into awareness while Quinn spoke, and when tears began streaming down her face, Brittany took action.

"Oh, Quinn," she said, sitting up into a kneeling position, grabbing Quinn's other hand delicately over her bandages. She didn't question the injury, and she didn't question the tears on Quinn's face. She just pulled Quinn closer so that her thighs were pressing against the mattress, and she lightly brought her lips to the distraught girl's cheeks, kissing away the saltiness.

"I..." Quinn struggled for words, words that weren't there and hadn't been there for quite some time - words that may never be there again.

"Shhh," Brittany whispered against Quinn's lips. She stroked the sides of Quinn's wet cheeks, pulling her hopelessly closer and kissing her soundly.

When Quinn moaned, it was involuntary. She couldn't help it, she really fucking couldn't. And while Brittany had given her kisses on the lips before, Brittany had never fucking _kissed her_ - not like this. "God," she muttered against Brittany's lips. Brittany just smiled and ran her tongue along Quinn's upper lip. Quinn wanted to mention how good she tasted, how hot her mouth was, how much she needed _something _- and how much that _something_ was turning into _this._

Santana was still holding her hand, Quinn hadn't forgotten. And then soft lips were caressing the underside of her wrist, and Quinn shuddered. She broke the kiss with Brittany to stare down into Santana's eyes - eyes that were so dark they might as well have been black. The girl's lips were consuming every millimeter of Quinn's sensitive skin. She threw her head back in pleasure, and Brittany's tongue licked a path along her throat.

Such simple touches, and Quinn was already coming undone. It had been way too fucking long since she had been properly fucked. But had she ever been properly fucked? She was already starting to think that no, she fucking hadn't.

Brittany grasped the back of Quinn's neck and pulled her forward into another kiss. This time, their tongues began to explore each other. Carefully, almost hesitantly. Santana brought one of Quinn's fingers to her lips, sucking the digit into her mouth. Quinn responded with a throaty moan of pleasure, and Brittany took advantage - leaving all hesitation behind and snaking her tongue into Quinn's mouth, tasting the girl more fully than ever. Quinn immediately had her hand on the back of Brittany's head, holding her in place, sucking deliciously on her perfect tongue and wondering why she had never done this before.

Santana removed Quinn's finger from her lips, taking her friend's hand and placing it on Brittany's chest. An already hardened nipple was suddenly between Quinn's fingertips, and she attacked Brittany's lips with a vengeance as she rolled her fingers roughly. A muffled moan of pleasure crossed from Brittany's mouth into Quinn's.

"Here," Santana softly said, gaining the attention of the blondes in front of her briefly. She pulled Brittany backwards, delicately caressing her between the legs as Brittany leaned back against the pillows. Once Brittany was situated, Santana hopped off of the bed to stand next to Quinn. She looked her right in the eyes, and Quinn felt safe. "Come on," Santana whispered, wrapping a hand around Quinn's hip and indicating that she should lay down.

Quinn climbed onto the bed, but she pulled Santana with her. And as she laid down on the cool sheets, she drug Santana down on top of her naked body. Their lips crashed together, and it was powerful and explosive and everything Quinn's brief sexual encounter with Sam hadn't been. Brittany's fingertips were trailing up and down her body, and Santana's tongue was making her see stars behind her eyelids, and Quinn wondered why she had never before had sex with a women.

Unintelligible sounds left Quinn's lips in whimpers and moans as Santana detached their lips and moved down Quinn's figure. Brittany leaned up and took Santana's place, sucking on Quinn's tongue this time and causing more stars to explode in Quinn's mind.

"Fuck!" Quinn exclaimed as Santana's hot fucking mouth descended on her left breast, sucking and licking and nipping and generally making Quinn fucking _lose it_.

Brittany grinned against Quinn's lips and turned her head to look down at Quinn's chest where Santana's head was moving back and forth, up and down. Quinn could do little more than breathe raggedly against the smooth skin of Brittany's neck above her. "That's so fucking hot," Brittany proclaimed to the room at large. Santana raised her eyes and gave Brittany a sly grin, Quinn's nipple between her teeth. She raised a hand and crooked a finger, indicating that Brittany should join her.

With a mouth on each of her breasts, Quinn could barely maintain the coherency to fucking _breathe_ - let alone think or form sentences or give direction. Her hands were on the back of brunette and blonde heads, but she wasn't guiding - she was just trying to convey how fucking _good_ they felt on top of her (as if her guttural exclamations hadn't been indication enough).

Quinn felt the bed shift and Santana moved slightly. And Quinn thought she had seen fucking _stars_ earlier, but now her eyes were open and all she could see were the two beautiful girls on top of her, and all she could feel were their fingers touching her in her most intimate of places. Because two hands were between her thighs, but Quinn couldn't tell up from down, let alone Brittany's hands from Santana's.

"Oh, fuck," she whispered. And then someone parted her folds, and she could hear her wetness in the quiet atmosphere of the room, and she was screaming as someone entered her, "_Oh, fuck!_" Fingers were circling her clit and fingers were inside of her and fingers were tweaking her nipples and Quinn couldn't fucking _function_ beyond curse words and hip thrusts and keening moans of desire and need.

She didn't even have time to be embarrassed by how quickly she was going to come. All she could do was gasp and writhe and not think about Beth or Puck or the world beyond these four walls for a few blissful minutes. That was all this was about, right? That's all she had really needed - to forget and to feel something besides despair.

"Jesus Christ," she panted into the warm air. "San," she moaned, grabbing the brunette's hair between her fingers and pleading with her movements for the girl to move. Santana obeyed Quinn's unspoken request, pressing her breasts into Quinn's and kissing her roughly on the lips. Fingers pumped in and out of her, and Quinn couldn't tell if they were _both_ inside of her or not, but she was inclined to think that they were. Brittany's foot caressed her curled toes, and her chest pressed against Quinn's side. The blonde's lips were sucking forcefully on the pale skin of Quinn's neck. "Brittany," Quinn gasped into Santana's mouth. "Please," she spoke - to fucking _anyone_ who would listen, "please, fuck me!"

They obliged.

Quinn had never felt so complete - so full of warmth and surrounded by love - and when she came, she came with the names of her best friends on her bruised lips.

Her body rocked forward with her orgasm, electric spasms spreading through her from head to toe before she collapsed back down on the bed. Santana and Brittany each spread out along her sides, and they continued to kiss all of her exposed skin.

For some reason, a smile had found its way onto Quinn's lips. Memories and nightmares and obligations hadn't yet resurfaced, and she was free - blissfully fucking _free_ like she hadn't been in years. Brittany leaned up on an elbow and kissed the corner of Quinn's smile. "We've missed you, Q," she said, her voice quiet and sincere as she allowed her moist fingertips to trace the smile on Quinn's lips.

Quinn nodded - her voice incapable of forming coherent words - and wondered to herself when exactly it was that she had left.

* * *

><p><em>AN: So, Quittana. I realize that some people don't like deviations from their Faberry/Brittana OTPs. But I can't really apologize, because this made sense to me. And while smut isn't my strong suit, I hope that this was enjoyable to read - and if you're upset that it wasn't Faberry, just imagine how hot it will be when __**they**__ finally have sex._


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